


fire, fire

by clytemnestras



Series: fem february 2016 [3]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi, Mythology References, Prose Poem, fairytale references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 11:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6050320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clytemnestras/pseuds/clytemnestras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Hold me, wrap me up</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Unfold me</i>
  <br/>
  <i>I am small and needy</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Warm me up</i>
  <br/>
  <i>And breathe me</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	fire, fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nereid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nereid/gifts).



 

She is born, and when she is there’s nothing like a home or a place of warmth. Girl wakes up a body in a costume, an abandoned fairytale character lost somewhere between the princess and the monster.

Sometime after, in a forest, or in an open empty house filled with marble and dust, the girl kills the princess and wants to be the monster because the monster feels like safe thing; monster feels like a safer thing when she still has nothing like a home to lie in and feel small. 

In this story the girl is Psyche after her placement in the sky and it’s moments, just moments from the supernova. 

 

 

*

 

 

A river is always something wild. This is chaotic neutral in a body. (She) will watch every lost second of ruination and will feel a heart like a music box - what’s a melody to a thief but a calling card? A melody to a stolen thing is heart-rendered thing - heart strings making sounds of melancholy because homesickness is an ache to (her).

(She) keeps calling, years and stars, songs and wars, still calling and waiting for the response. And sometimes, just sometimes, there is an fleeting touch and warmth blossoms through the universe. 

 

 

*

 

 

Run. Run like a sore thing, broken legs care so much more about finding the destination. She finds herself becoming a mirror every time she glances there’s a new face with different eyes that still stare like abysses back into her. 

This is an infinity, named after every man you kill. 

How can a girl be a diary entry for a man who is not a man? Oh, but he could be everything, he could be the violent light inside of her - good man, good woman. The more she runs from - to - him the closer it feels to rest.

 

 

*

 

 

(She) is a vessel of love, oh love. musicbox heart like a voicebox, wind up bird like another piece of clockwork slipping every slow inch of (her) time away. 

(Her) precious, pretty girl always there like taken breath and dissipated just as quick. No one loves the thing they can hold on to. (Her) boy still holding the tatters, the slipper, the shed skin an aching where (her) intangible cannot. 

_ Take her,  _ (she) says like a selfish thing. Want to want for a second of life just to touch, for once. (She) thinks about wolves, about the need to eat a girl whole; thinks about machinery, what it’s tastes like to kiss with a warm mouth and a long slow burn holding all the fabrics of (her) skin together.

_ Keep her.  _ Nothing has managed, steel or ice or fire. But oh, to imagine. To want.

 

 

*

 

 

Girl finds home on the lines of infinity and mechanics. What’s a home to a murderer but the hollow glow of impossibility - this is a safe house. This is where gold stays and flourishes. Bedsheets for a man with hair in his eyes boyish and impossibly old feels like comfort. 

So he can brush the hair from her weary eyes and call her princess like it means  _ i’m yours _ and she can call him monster like it means  _ stay.  _

This is a home - where she can fall asleep when he is gone to devour the impossible and still feel a breath on her neck, hear gentle coos as a lullaby; like wrapped in warmth - like the long exhale before a wakeup kiss. 

This is home, where the home can take her inside and love her back. 

 

 

*

 

 

Gauze and gold and sleep. (She) can disassemble, and (she) can touch, and (she) can have this thing with (her) sticky, soft fingers if (she) wants. And (she) wants. 

If (she) bites there’s no proof but the gold-lined trails on precious skin. Neither shared spoils or tug of war. Chaos tastes like shared sacrifice - in the end of the story, the monster becomes a god and everyone with exposed skin becomes thankful.

_ Touch me, _ (she) says, and doesn’t know how to feel anything.

_ Touch me,  _ (she) says, and aches inside (her) liquid heart.

Even just fingertip presses, quick glancing touch just as before but with all the intent of the infinities and it feels like every death (she) prayed for and that begged for kiss of life again.

 

 

*

 

 

Girl goes back to the forest when she can’t breathe inside her home. She sets as much of it on fire as she can just to miss the warmth.

  
She never could stay away long. 


End file.
